


Unbowed

by AnaliseGrey



Series: Where Light Fears to Tread [7]
Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: CONTINUATION!, Continuation of the last piece, Gen, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Implied/Referenced Torture, Temporary Character Death, don't worry!, he gets better!, implied/referenced malnutrition, magic used for nefarious purposes, non-consenting magic healing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-03
Updated: 2020-01-03
Packaged: 2021-02-27 10:09:27
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,385
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22095406
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnaliseGrey/pseuds/AnaliseGrey
Summary: A continuation of Unwilling.
Series: Where Light Fears to Tread [7]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1441021
Comments: 28
Kudos: 241





	Unbowed

**Author's Note:**

> Title taken from 'Invictus', by William Ernest Henley:
> 
> "Out of the night that covers me,  
> Black as the pit from pole to pole,  
> I thank whatever gods may be  
> For my unconquerable soul.
> 
> In the fell clutch of circumstance  
> I have not winced nor cried aloud.  
> Under the bludgeonings of chance  
> My head is bloody, but unbowed.
> 
> Beyond this place of wrath and tears  
> Looms but the Horror of the shade,  
> And yet the menace of the years  
> Finds and shall find me unafraid.
> 
> It matters not how strait the gate,  
> How charged with punishments the scroll,  
> I am the master of my fate,  
> I am the captain of my soul."

He doesn’t know how long they’ve had him.

It’s disconcerting to be unsure, to not have as solid a grasp of time as he's used to. He thinks it's more than a week, probably less than a month, but beyond that, Caleb just doesn’t know.

It turns out that dying messes with a person’s perception of time, and he’s died a few times now, if he’s correct.

It’s difficult to tell. His grasp on reality is tenuous at the moment.

Not a lot has changed since he woke up from his first death strapped to a chair. He’s still _here_ , wherever ‘here’ is, trapped and at Ikithon’s mercy, and Archmage Ikithon has made it very clear that he really, _really_ doesn't like when people don’t do as he says. Ikithon's taken on Caleb’s interrogation personally, no doubt not trusting the job to anyone else, or perhaps just enjoying the petty opportunity to hurt the one who stood against him. 

There's something very satisfying in telling Ikithon 'no'. It's freeing, to deny the man what he wants, even knowing what he'll do to Caleb when he does.

Perhaps _especially_ knowing what Ikithon will do to him when he does.

All the no's he says now won't make up for the ones he didn't say when he should have, but each one he utters through cracked and bloodied lips feels like moving closer to absolution, to his soul being a little less muddied than before.

He gets messages, sometimes, from Jester, and much less frequently from Caduceus. They know he’s alive- or that he is _most_ of the time anyway- and they’re looking for him, are _coming_ for him. They won’t leave him here forever, not if they have any say in it. He does his best when he’s able to respond, to keep his mental voice even and sure, even if he's physically incapable of speech. His goal is to let them know he persists, that he’s still here, that they’re not striving in vain. Persisting is hard, far harder than he’s ever known, even in his worst moments, but he also knows now that dying is no escape, not when Ikithon won’t let him stay dead. Even unconsciousness is only the barest respite. Ikithon has a team of clerics whose only apparent job is to keep Caleb alive, or if not that then to bring him back quickly enough that it doesn’t matter. In the brief spans of time where he’s granted rest, he wonders what gods they pray to, how they justify to themselves what they’re doing, what they’re facilitating. He doesn’t let his mind linger on it too long; in the long run, it doesn’t really matter. Nothing he says will keep them from doing what they intend. In their minds, he knows, he’s a traitor- to the Empire, to the Academy, and most importantly, to _Ikithon_ , which is why he’ll continue to suffer until one of a few things happens.

It’s possible Ikithon will give up on him, decide he’s not going to get anything, and just let Caleb die. It’s not ideal, not the way he’d prefer to go, without having gotten to say goodbye to his friends, without having _fixed_ anything, but it’s possible, if not _likely_. As stated, Ikithon doesn’t like being rebuffed, and Caleb has done nothing but tell him no since his arrival here.

Ikithon could also just keep him here indefinitely, for days, months, _years_ , if his ire and patience are as strong as Caleb thinks they are. Potential years of this cycle, of torture, death, revivification. His will is strong now, willing to resist- there’s no guarantee that Ikithon will stop hurting him if he gives in- but he doesn’t know how long he'll last in the face of unending suffering. As he well knows, everyone, even the most sure, the most stubborn, has a breaking point. He just isn’t sure what his is, or will be.

Rescue is an option, however fleeting. He knows his friends are trying- their messages, while scattered, are well-meaning, and do help him keep his spirits up, even if he doesn’t have any real expectation of success. He mostly hopes they don’t sacrifice anything they can’t do without in order to get him back.

He’s five deaths in, and just barely conscious after his most recent revivification when rescue comes.

They haven’t healed him much past bringing him back, just enough that they don’t have to fear him bleeding out and undoing their efforts. He’s on Ikithon’s work table resting while the man himself has lunch at the small desk he’d had brought in ages ago. Caleb honestly isn’t sure at this point if Ikithon is eating near him as another form of torture, or if he just doesn’t want to waste the time it would take to go do it somewhere else. 

He’s strapped down and muzzled, though it's a bit of a waste. Moving under his own power would take energy he doesn’t possess. The thought of sitting up leaves him exhausted, let alone walking. Between hunger, torture, and the toll that coming back from the dead takes on a person, he’s hardly in the shape to run. The muzzle feels like overkill as well- even without it, he knows he’s in no state to cast, even if his voice weren’t shredded and ruined from screaming.

Mind blessedly blank for the moment, it takes Caleb longer than it should to notice. There’s a noise that doesn’t belong, faintly echoing out in the hallway. The doors and walls here are thick, likely to contain the sounds from this very room, which means whatever he’s hearing must be far louder than it seems. Just as he’s trying to place it, there’s a muffled _whump_ , and a tremor shakes the room enough that the vibrations shiver up the table to where he can feel it.

There’s the briefest pause, and then Ikithon is pushing his chair back and coming to his feet, already turning to face the door as it shudders loudly on its hinges.

There’s another _whump_ , much louder than the first, and Caleb knows that sound, recognizes it, and smiles as much as he’s able around the bit that stills his tongue.

 _Fluffernutter_ , he thinks, as the door flies inward, moving at a speed that’s a little terrifying for a piece of wood that size. Unfortunately for him, the table he lies on is in the center of the room, and as the door bursts in, its trajectory takes it directly at him. It hits the edge of the table and jolts it backward with immense force, the legs screeching across the stone floor. Thankfully the door doesn’t land on him, but he can’t help the pained cry the sudden jostling pulls from him. He blinks, and when his vision clears it’s to the sight he didn’t think he’d live to see. Just on the other side of the doorway is the Mighty Nein- or at least some of them. With the door gone, it’s much easier to hear the sounds of battle from up the hallway, the clash of swords, shouting from voices both familiar and strange, and he’s just able to catch a blue and brown blur as it streaks into the room, aiming straight for Ikithon.

 _Beauregard_.

Caleb wants to tell her to stop, to turn and run, but he can’t. He pulls uselessly at the restraints holding him down, not wanting her to get hurt, not for him, not like this.

She manages a few hits, knocking the Archmage backward before he gestures and an arcane shield comes up in front of him, blocking her last strike. Her face is twisted in a snarl, fury readily evident, but other than a small trickle of blood at the corner of his mouth, Ikithon doesn’t look especially bothered, and his voice is irritatingly calm when he addresses her.

“Expositor. I would suggest you cease your attacks unless you _want_ to see your friend suffer.”

There’s the briefest hesitation, Beau’s eyes flicking over to him, but before Caleb can even try to shake his head Ikithon is saying something, spitting out a word of **_power_** , aimed not at Beauregard, but at _him_.

Caleb’s world ignites in pain.

He knows what this is. It isn’t the first time Ikithon has used this spell on him. It’s not even the first time Ikithon has used it on him this _week_ , but that doesn’t make it any easier to bear. He writhes, unable to help it as the agony wracks through him, like he’s being shredded from the inside out. Caleb’s vaguely aware of a shout, he thinks it’s Beau again, but it’s difficult to focus on anything other than his body, other than how every last inch of sinew and muscle feels like it’s being torn apart.

It isn’t doing him any damage, or at least not that he isn’t doing to himself by violently struggling, but Beau doesn’t know that. He can only imagine what he looks like, thin, haggard, filthy again after all this time, bloody and beaten, and now writhing on the table like a dying fish. It must be terrifying to watch, and he forces his eyes open through the pain, forces himself to look over where he last saw Beauregard.

She’s staring at him, eyes wide in horror, skin gone a few shades paler, and he locks eyes with her, focuses just enough to shake his head definitively, to gesture with his chin back towards where Ikithon’s hands are already moving in a somatic gesture, and he sees it the moment it clicks for her.

This is a distraction, and she almost got taken in by it.

She darts out of the way of the spell Ikithon flings at her, and the fight is on again.

Caleb tries to keep track of what’s happening, but he can’t. It’s hard enough to remember to breathe, to do anything but tremble in pain and exhaustion when his body no longer lets him try to fight against the phantom agony. He’s crying, the tears streaming down the sides of his face and soaking into the leather straps of the muzzle, but it’s not remotely the worst indignity he’s suffered recently, and so he leans into it, the only outlet he has. He’s helpless to assist, helpless to escape, helpless to fight back; whatever the outcome of this battle is, it will be in no part whatsoever due to his actions of efforts. All he can do is wait.

The sudden cessation of pain is jarring, and leaves him floating in a state of near-euphoria. He knows he’s still woefully injured, is likely in terrible shape, but he can’t bring himself to care.

There’s a hand on his face all of a sudden and he jerks back, pulling away with a whine, but instead of pain he gets a string of impressive invective in what he thinks might be Deep Speech.

“Fuck, shit, sorry, _sorry_ , god, what did that asshole _do_ to you, fuck-”

It’s Beau again, and Caleb has the dawning realization that if the spell stopped, and if Beau is over here, then that means-

He turns his head to the side, and on the floor in a heap across the room is Ikithon.

Caleb knows the difference between a body at rest and a _body_ , and he’s reasonably certain he’s looking at a _body_. Even as Beauregard works to unbuckle the straps holding him down and the trappings of the muzzle, Caleb struggles to wrap his mind around it. He can’t pull his eyes away, certain that the moment he does Ikithon will get up again, will appear right behind Beau and will murder her as he watches.

“C’mon, dude, up you go.” Beau has an arm wedged under his shoulders, helping him sit up, but his muscles don’t want to cooperate, and he ends up flopped against her side. He hasn’t realized how chilled his skin is, how little the ragged remains of his clothes are doing to keep him warm until he’s pressed against Beau, who’s blazing with the warmth of a campfire. He sags further against her, sighing with relief, but he’s not there long before she shifts him away. He doesn’t complain, couldn’t if he wanted to, and he’s embarrassed to realize it’s so she can get a better grip to lift him in a bridal carry.

“Did they feed you at _all_ , the fuckers, I’m gonna _kill_ them if there’s any left.” Beau continues to mutter under her breath, all barely contained rage, but her arms are nothing but gentle as she carries him from the room.

He’s having trouble keeping his eyes open, even as Beau entreats him to stay awake. There are other voices, though they blur together; he recognizes all of them, knows they’re safe, but he’s so _tired_. Beau’s arms tighten slightly around him as she moves forward and there’s an odd shift and pull, his sense of up and down going temporarily skewed before the world rights itself once more.

He manages to crack his eyes open and realizes from the room they’re in where they must be. It’s dim, and through the nearby doorway he thinks he can hear the ocean.

Nicodranis.

Which means-

“Is it finished?”

Yussa is waiting nearby, face pinched, though Caleb isn’t coherent enough to be able to read his expression properly.

“ _Yes_.” The word is almost spat out of Beauregard’s mouth, and Caleb is still trying to process, to let it sink in that Ikithon is, at least for now, gone.

He’s shaking, isn’t quite certain when it started, but he knows Beau must be able to feel it. It isn’t finished, not as long as Ikithon’s people are still roaming free, not as long as the Scourgers are still at work. They’ll know who Ikithon had in his tower, who he’d been working on.

It isn’t finished, but it _is_ a start.

And perhaps without the poisonous heart, the rest of the body will start to heal.

“Come, I have a room prepared.”

As the Mighty Nein follow after, Caleb now held securely by Jester, he lets himself sink into the knowledge that he’s safe for the time being, and falls into the soft waiting arms of rest.

**Author's Note:**

> Well then.
> 
> Sometimes the words don't want to come, and then sometimes you write almost 2400 words in a day. *shrug* Who knows...


End file.
